


To Speak With Another Tongue

by DreamingPagan



Series: Days of Ivory [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Accent Porn of a Sort, Canon Divergent, Fluff, In Which James is Like an Onion, In Which Thomas and James are Cute Together, In Which We Recall That McGraw is an Irish Name, Lots of Layers and Makes People Cry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:59:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: James McGraw, Thomas Hamilton is slowly coming to realize, is a man of many talents and several different accents. Or, James is self-conscious about his lower-class accent. Thomas reassures him.





	1. London, 1705

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FuckingWarship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuckingWarship/gifts), [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [FuckingWarship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuckingWarship/pseuds/FuckingWarship) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> Happy Birthday, Cynthia! The middle chapter is unabashedly for you. Hope you like it, OP!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:
> 
> James usually hides his natural accent because it would be considered too rough, rural and uncultured, and he is very self-conscious about how he sounds. Thomas hears him slip once and asks him to speak in his natural voice when they're together, saying that James does not need to hide from him. Bonus points for some sweet lovemaking at the end (especially if Thomas is turned on by James' natural accent)

_London, 1705:_

THUNK

“Ah! Ruddy hell!” 

The cursing woke him from a sound sleep. Thomas blinked, and rolled over, suddenly aware that James was no longer beside him in the bed. Instead, his lover was hobbling around the room, having stubbed his toe in the dark. 

“James? What on Earth are you doing?” 

James turned back, and the sheepish expression on his face was enough to bring a smile to Thomas’ lips. 

“Went to use the chamberpot,” he mumbled. “Forgot about the storage chest.” Thomas frowned. There was something odd about that last, he realized - something didn’t match, and his sleepy mind mulled it over for a moment before he realized. 

“You sounded odd, just then,” he murmured. 

“I - yes. Sorry about that.” It was difficult to see in the poor light, but James might actually have blushed, and it made no sense, because there was no reason to apologize. He’d used saltier language himself over such offenses to his unsuspecting toes, and James knew it. So if not for the cursing, it had to be something else - the odd shaping of his vowels, perhaps? He turned over, looking at James quizzically. 

“You said you were from Cornwall,” he said, the revelation coming slowly. “Padstow, wasn’t it? But you’ve always sounded like you were from London.”

“Thomas -” James tried to cut him off, but he was awake now, his mind working on the discrepancy. James sounded like a Londoner. Why would he sound like a Londoner unless -?

A sudden suspicion crossed his mind, and he sat up abruptly, the sheets slipping away from his bare chest to pool in his lap unheeded. 

“James Edward McGraw - have you been putting on an accent this whole time?” James didn’t seem to hear the delighted illumination in his voice, because he winced, which only served to confirm Thomas’ suspicion.

“My God - all these months -”

“Thomas - please - I -” James started, panic laced in his voice, and Thomas abruptly realized that his lover was upset - was, in fact, making the little nervous hand motions that he only made when he was genuinely worried, and he felt remorse shoot through him. He’d never learned to restrain himself when he made a discovery, and it had the most damnable habit of upsetting the people around him - something he never wanted to do to James. Thomas leaned over, taking hold of his lover’s arm and pulling him down onto the bed to sit beside him. 

“It’s alright,” he reassured, his hand coming to rest on James’ shoulder blade, and some part of him could not help but be saddened at James’ automatic assumption that he would be angry. “James - it’s alright. Just - why would you think you needed to hide this from me of all people?” He felt James relax more than saw it - heard him blow out a breath and then give a shaky little laugh.

“It’s not that I meant to deceive you,” he said after a moment, and Thomas drew his legs closer to himself, making room for James to get comfortable. 

“Then why?” 

James sighed. 

“You have to understand - it was not considered - acceptable to sound the way that I did, when I first enlisted. I came on as my father’s apprentice and when he died - it became second nature to hide it - to speak the way the officer candidates did, to - to pretend to be someone else, someone more -” He hesitated, lips pressing together in a funny little motion that was half a grimace before he finished, “- palatable.” 

“More English, you mean,” Thomas said, feeling anger wash over him at the notion that anyone would want to censor James for the sound of his voice. “Less Celtic.” James nodded, and his lips quirked upward just a touch.

“Have you ever heard a Cornish accent?” he asked, and Thomas shook his head.

“Not that I would recognize as such, no.”

“It’s widely considered to be rather uncouth at best, downright uncivilized at worst,” James said. “Listen to your porter the next time he speaks. He’s got a thicker brogue than I’ve ever had - probably from the southern tip of the peninsula, judging by the number of times I’ve heard him muttering in Kernewek.” 

“Kernewek?” 

“Cornish. It’s what the locals call the language.” 

“Is that what it is? I knew it was some form of Brythonic but I could never place - wait. You speak it as well?” James shook his head.

“No - not really. I can pick up a word here and there. My grandmother would likely have been washing his mouth out with soap by now, though, if she could hear him.” 

“You were raised there but you don’t speak the language?” 

“I haven’t spoken a word of Cornish since I was very young, although I kept the accent long enough that it slips out now and again. Admiral Hennessey took me on as a sort of assistant to him when I was nine, and I’ve not been back to Padstow since.” 

Thomas was staring at him, and James shifted uncomfortably.

“What?” he asked, and Thomas endeavored to gather his jaw up off the floor.

“ _Nine?_ ” he managed to ask at last, and James nodded.

“Yes,” he answered. “What of it?” 

“You were nine years old when -” Thomas started incredulously. “James - do you know what I was doing when I was nine years old?” 

“Driving your tutors mad?” James answered dryly.

“Yes!” Thomas answered. “Hiding from my tutors and running about the house getting into all the books and -”

“Doing the same things I was doing but to poor Admiral Hennessey, who had the good sense to finally allow me to sit in his cabin and read when I wasn’t about my duties,” James finished. “It wasn’t so horrible a life as you’re picturing, I promise you.” 

“You weren’t mistreated then?” Thomas asked suspiciously, and James laughed.

“No,” he answered. “The Admiral would have had the heads of anyone who tried it. I had the run of the ship, and eventually I earned my place among the midshipmen.”

The accent had come out again - just a bit, around the edges, Thomas noticed, and he listened, fascinated, as his lover recounted tales from his childhood, not pointing it out lest James stop. It was - pleasing, he decided - less clipped and formal, and therefore easier on the ear.

“James,” he said eventually, “you know you don’t have to hide things from me, don’t you? If you want - if it would make you more comfortable - you can speak normally around me. In fact, I’d prefer it. You’re not to be ashamed, not of who you are and certainly not of what you are.”

James stopped, giving him a startled look. 

“Thomas -” he started, then stopped. “I don’t -” he started, almost experimentally, and stopped again, his cheeks coloring visibly even in the half-light, an embarrassed expression stealing over his face again. “It’s been years,” he said at last, the words almost mumbled. “You’re certain?” 

Thomas reached out, his hand coming to rest on the juncture between James neck and shoulder, his eyes seeking James’ in the dark.

“James McGraw - regardless of whether you are from London or Cornwall or the most uncivilized outpost in the New World - you are perfect, just as you are.” James stopped, studying his face for a moment as if to decide if he were serious. He drew back after a moment, a soft expression stealing over his face. 

“You’re impossible, you know that?” The words came out in a husky tone, overlaid with the same broad accent, and Thomas felt warmth spread through him, his heart beating faster and his mouth gone suddenly dry.

“One tries,” he murmured, and smiled as James reached out, drawing him into a kiss. “James -” he murmured. “Talk to me. Keep talking.” James drew back, and looked at him again, understanding and interest sparking in his eyes. 

“What do y’want me to say?” he asked, and Thomas smiled, the corner of his mouth turning upward in a wicked grin as he pressed closer to his lover.

“Why don’t you tell me in exquisite detail what you’re going to do to me?”


	2. April, 1716

_The Walrus, 1716:_

“Your voice sounds different when you’re giving orders.”

The observation came from John, and James turned to find him standing, one elbow resting against the rail, the other holding him up on the other side and taking some of the weight off his bad leg, a contemplative look on his face.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and John cocked his head.

“You mean you haven’t noticed?” he asked. “It’s quite a difference. One moment I’d swear you came from peasant stock like the rest of us and the next you sound like you ought to be attending dinners and wearing a white curly wig, talking about art or whatever the hell the nobility talk about while they’re sharpening their knives behind their backs.”

“Usually politics,” Thomas supplied cheerfully, coming to stand on the other side of John. “Anyone talking about art at a social function is usually having a conversation about another sort of encounter altogether.” 

John grinned, and James rolled his eyes.

“You’d know,” he said dryly, and John’s eyes narrowed. 

“Fascinating. There it is again. Thomas, have you ever noticed -”

Thomas was staring at James too, now, and he shifted, suddenly self-conscious.

“What?” he asked, and Thomas laughed.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, and James frowned.

“Thomas -” he started, and Thomas shook his head.

“It’s true, James, you can’t deny it."

“I can, and I will,” James said. 

“No - you really can’t,” John put in. “You’re putting on an accent. I take it this isn’t the first time?” 

“No,” Thomas answered. “He used to do it all the time. James, you do realize that Admiral Hennessey is not likely to pop up and scold you about pronunciation, don’t you?” 

James snorted.

“I wouldn’t rule it out as a possibility,” he answered, and Thomas frowned, hearing the strained undertone in James’ voice.

“I suppose I hadn’t considered it,” he admitted. “It’s not as though he has much cause to be in the area, though, is it?” 

James snorted.

“I gave up any pretense at knowing what was going through the man’s head ten years ago,” he answered. “Have you given thought to what will happen if one of us recognized in the process of implementing this plan of yours?” 

“We won’t be,” Thomas said. “But if we are -”

“If you _are_ recognized, then I’ll give them something else to think about,” John cut in. 

“There, you see?” Thomas said lightly. “John has our backs covered.”

“Your backs. Your chests. Your faces. All those other interesting bits,” John teased, and James chuckled. 

“You’ll have even more of my face to cover after tonight,” he answered. “That is unless you’ve hidden my razor as well?” He looked almost hopeful at the prospect. 

John shook his head.

“Oh no,” he answered. “I’m actually looking forward to this. It will be quite interesting to see what you look like under there.”

“Traitor,” James muttered, and John laughed. 

He had, in fact, hidden James’ razor not long after they had first begun sharing a bed, much as he had done with Thomas’ and still did from time to time, but for a different reason.

“I always liked your hair,” he’d said, upon being confronted by a rather irate James one morning. “I know why you shaved your head, but surely now, with Thomas back -”

James had given him a look, and John in turn had turned to Thomas, a wordless plea for backup in his eyes.

“I do rather miss it,” Thomas had put in wistfully. “Really, James - I understand why you felt the need, but there is a difference between penance and self-flagellation for the sake of it.” 

It had been a good point. He had begun the practice out of the desire to not have to face the familiar visage of James McGraw in the mirror. He had looked at himself and seen a dead man, and the sight was too much. McGraw, he’d thought, was dead and in the ground. It was not right that his face should confront Flint every time he glanced at his own reflection - not right that his visage should remain unmarked by Miranda’s death, and every tug on his hair even from a comb had reminded him of her fingers running through his hair. And so he had shaved his head, shaving away with the red locks the man they belonged to. Now, though -

He hadn’t been James Flint in months - not since Thomas had stepped on board his ship and performed an abrupt resurrection. Miranda - 

Miranda would have understood. She would not have wanted him to mourn her forever. Miss her, yes - that was natural, but she would have been the first to tell him to stop punishing himself and move on with life. He had put away the razor the very next day and hadn’t used it on his head since. The result was the near-shoulder-length hair that James now pushed his hand through, sighing as he did so and wondering if he could bear the prospect of going through the itchy process of growing it out again if he shaved his head again right now. It seemed a radical step, though, to get out of a dinner party. Besides - the beard would take much less time to grow back.

“Alright,” he agreed. “I don’t want to hear a single snicker,” he warned John. “This was your idea.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” John assured him.  
***************************************************  
He had good reasons for wanting James and Thomas to attend this party.

There was vital intelligence to be gathered, for starters. Half the Naval officers in the Bahamas would be gathered in this one small spot for the night. There was infinite potential for information to be wheedled out of the right men, or their wives. And, if push came to shove, there was a huge advantage to be had in eliminating every single one of the bastards in a strategically timed blow. Thomas had firmly vetoed that latter idea, save as a last resort to save them all, but John was very much keeping it as a possibility. If it came to that, though, it was important that James be there to both extricate Thomas ahead of time and oversee the attack.

If John was honest, though - and he tried to be so with himself as much as possible - he admitted that what he truly wanted out of the night was a glimpse of the face that Thomas had fallen in love with. He had been curious for quite some time about the face that was hiding under the beard, the one that James must have worn as a Naval officer when he was young and still untainted by the twin demons of pain and rage that had given rise to Captain Flint. It was not that John found anything wrong with the face of the man he had first met and been fascinated by- far from it, but he could not help but feel a certain inquisitive interest as to what his lover truly looked like behind that last, least of the masks he had worn over the years.

“Alright. I’m finished. Thomas, you can use the basin.” James’ voice came around the corner from the bedroom they were sharing at the small inn where they were staying. They’d elected to try and blend in as much as possible, and part of that included appearing to be ordinary guests at this event, with a room in town from which they would be seen to publicly emerge. John would stay behind and meet with their backup only once James and Thomas were well away.

“God, I’d forgotten how odd this feels,” James’ voice continued. The London accent was back, John noted with amusement, almost as if James had shaved off the beard and the rougher edges of his personality with it. “I haven’t missed this,” he continued, his voice getting closer. 

He rounded the corner, and John felt his breath catch in his throat.

_Oh._

“Well?” James demanded, and John found himself attempting to untie the knot his tongue was tangled in suddenly and say something, anything. 

James was - Jesus Christ, he had no words, which was a rarity, for him, even with regards to his partners. There was nothing he could possibly say except -

“You - are never allowed to grow a beard again.” 

The corner of James’ mouth turned upward, and his tongue darted out just briefly, touching his lips, further guaranteeing that John would not be breathing normally for quite some time. Jesus Christ, his lips. Had they always looked like this? 

And his jawline. John did not think of himself as a poetic man, but he could have written odes - whole ballads, in fact - about that jaw and the chin that went with it. Who in the hell had ever thought it was a good idea to hide that under a beard? 

“James,” Thomas said, his voice far softer than John had heard it in a while. “Well. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” 

James shot him a fond grin, and John felt something that might have been a whimper pass his lips. No. James was definitely not allowed to grow the beard back - not when John had just discovered that his smile could look like that, with his top lip looking so incredibly enticing and the dimples (actual fucking dimples, holy Christ the man was beautiful) on either side of his mouth showing. Not when he’d just found out that James’ mouth was the key to knowing what was going on in his head. No wonder he had grown a beard when he’d turned pirate - good God, he was absolutely transparent without it!

(And yes, John acknowledged, that could prove to be a challenge with the crew, but a little transparency couldn’t hurt, not when the crew regularly complained that they couldn’t understand their captain’s decisions or predict them. He’d shave James’ face himself if he had to to not lose this now that he’d found it.)

“The uniform’s held up surprisingly well,” he said gruffly, pulling at the cuffs, and John swallowed, somehow managing to get his breathing under control for a moment to look below James’ freshly shaven face.

That was a mistake in and of itself, he found. The uniform had, in fact, held up well over the course of ten years, and the sight of James in it -

“I think we may have broken John,” Thomas said, voice shot through with amusement. James turned to him, surprise flashing over his face at the sight of John’s shock. He grinned, and came closer, reaching out to wrap a hand around the back of John’s neck. He bent to kiss him, and John finally felt himself able to move again. He reached up to take James’ face between both hands and kissed him hard, taking a moment to appreciate the smoothness of James’ skin against his lips. He let him pull back again a moment later. He did not move his hands, though, and he looked into his lover’s green eyes, his gaze serious.

“You’re coming back in one piece without pissing off any nobles or getting blood on the uniform,” he ordered. 

“It’s a dinner party, not a duel,” James answered, and John refrained from pointing out what had happened the last time James had gone to have a civilized dinner on shore. Still, the thought must have been clear, because James winced, pain flashing through his eyes, and John once again cursed Peter Ashe and England.

“We’ll be cautious,” Thomas said quietly, reading the same thought in John’s eyes, and John nodded. 

“It won’t happen again,” he murmured. “I’ll make sure of that.” James inhaled, his breath shaking as he released it, and he nodded.

Carriage wheels rattled outside and they parted reluctantly.

“Time to go,” James said, and Thomas nodded.

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he promised John.

“Just signal if you get into trouble,” he answered, and Thomas nodded.


	3. Three Hours Later

_Three hours later:_

“I told you this was a bad idea.” 

“Yes, thank you, James. Perhaps you’d like to say that again, just for repetition’s sake,” Thomas answered. He had turned to face James, the chains around his wrists clanking, and he winced, his jaw clenching and a pained expression crossing his face. 

“Are you alright?” James asked, and his lover shook his head, eyes closing.

“No,” he admitted. 

“The chains?” 

Thomas nodded quickly, his face pale. 

“It’s been nearly two years,” he said, his voice tight. “I - damn it I thought I was past this, but -” He stopped, swallowing hard, and James cursed vehemently, rattling his own bonds in yet another attempt to be free of them and go to Thomas.

“We’ll be out of here soon enough,” he reassured his lover, and saw the wry expression that Thomas threw his way. 

“You hope,” he said. “I suppose we should simply be grateful you were recognized as James McGraw rather than -”

“Not here,” James warned, and Thomas nodded.

“Who was the man that recognized you?” he asked, and James scowled. 

“Lieutenant Pickram,” he spat. “The same bastard I punched for insulting you and Miranda in London.”

“Well, at least you picked a deserving target,” Thomas laughed shakily. “Do you suppose -” 

The chains rattled again and Thomas flinched, his breathing coming faster, and he closed his eyes.

“Thomas - fucking hell,” James swore, making a concerted effort to rise to his feet despite the chains locking his wrists around a post. “I swear to God, when I get out of here, that bastard Pickram is a dead man, and anyone that has a problem with it can -”

The sound of boots outside their cell interrupted him, and he turned his head toward the door.

“Gabh suas ort féin!” he spat as the door opened, feet scrabbling against the floor as he attempted to shimmy himself up the pole, his boot heels slipping against the straw.

“James, I’m not a Celt but I’m fairly sure that was rude.” 

James felt a jolt of surprise travel through him, and he stared as the man that had just come through the doorway removed his hat and shot both James and Thomas a grin. He knew that voice. More, he knew that face, although he had not seen it in over a decade.

“Isaac?” 

Isaac Jeffries took three steps, crossing the room, quite obviously in a hurry, shooting a look over his shoulder at the suddenly unguarded door. 

“You’re damned lucky,” he said, “that those fools up there don’t know who you really are or they’d never have let me come down here.” There was a jangle of metal as he produced a set of keys from under his cloak, and James gaped as he moved behind them, unlocking their chains. 

“Are you both fit to travel?” he asked, and James turned, his eyes seeking out Thomas, who sat, still shaking, staring up at Isaac, confusion and suspicion plain in his eyes. He sat on the floor, unmoving, and James frowned, worried. 

“Thomas?” James asked, and saw his lover’s eyes dart over to him. “Thomas -” 

Thomas held up a hand, cutting him off. He closed his eyes tightly, one hand massaging the wrist of the other, and he took a deep breath. 

“I’m alright,” he said, his voice wobbling only slightly. When he opened them the edge of panic had vanished, leaving behind weariness. He looked at Isaac.

“Apologies, Captain,” he offered, and James blinked - his only concession to his relief at finding Thomas once more in command of himself.

“Isaac - this is Thomas,” he introduced, and Isaac nodded.

“So I’d guessed. Lord Hamilton,” he greeted. He held out a hand, and Thomas stared at it for a moment before tentatively reaching out and taking hold, allowing Isaac to pull him to his feet. 

“How do you know James?” he asked, and Isaac turned an accusing look on James.

“You’ve never told him about me?” he asked, and James shook his head. 

“I wasn't sure where we stood,” he answered, and Isaac rolled his eyes, then reached out and wrapped both arms around him, his hands tightening around James’ back, squeezing tightly. He pulled back after a moment, putting one hand on either of his friend’s shoulders.

“Does that answer your question?” he asked, and James swallowed hard, nodding.

“Yes,” he croaked. 

Isaac nodded, lowering his arms, and turned to Thomas.

“Isaac Jeffries, at your service,” he introduced himself, lifting his hat a fraction in deference. “James and I met as midshipmen - we came up the ranks together until the idiot decided to piss off your own lord father.”

“Isaac, what the hell are you doing here?” James asked, ignoring Isaac’s jab about Alfred. “Why would you -?”

“Because I’ve missed your witty repartee and your ability to tell a man to go fuck himself in several different languages,” Isaac answered. “Why the hell do you think? Christ, James - you left without so much as a word to anyone. For a time I thought -”

“Thought what?” 

He shook his head, staring at James in silence as if he couldn’t quite believe he was there. 

“You look well,” he managed finally, and the corner of James’ mouth turned upward in a half-smile.

“So do you,” he answered. “I’m sorry. There was no time for goodbyes. When I left -”

“I know,” Isaac interrupted. At James’ questioning expression, he grimaced, pulling away. “I pulled the whole story out of Hennessey one night. He misses you, you know - something fierce. I told him -”

James stared at him incredulously. 

“He _misses_ me?” he asked. “He misses me, having told me I was - how did he put it? Profane and loathsome?” Isaac shook his head.

“I won’t try to convince you, not here,” he said. “I’ll only say that there’s more than you know to what was done. Come on - we’ll talk once we’re away from here.”

“We?” Thomas asked, and Isaac turned. 

“There are only so many transgressions the Navy is willing to overlook, and I’m fairly sure I’ve just gone over the limit,” he said with a satisfied smile. “We have about ten minutes before someone finds my resignation notice.” 

“That wouldn’t happen to involve Pickram?” James asked, and Isaac offered him a wolfish grin, which James echoed. “Good.” 

“We’ll need to get to John,” Thomas said quietly. “He'll be worried by now.” 

"If you're discussing a one-legged man, then I ran into him outside. He's agreed to waylay some of the guards so that we can make our escape," Isaac put in. "He'll be waiting outside." 

James made a face, looking down at himself, the blood on his white waistcoat standing out all the more in the light. 

“Shit,” he muttered. 

“You can worry over that later,” Isaac said. “Christ - some things don’t change, do they?” 

“Not that, anyway,” Thomas laughed as they left the room.  
*************************************  
“I thought you said you didn’t speak Cornish,” Thomas said later, when they had returned to the ship. They had retired to James’ cabin while John found a hammock for Isaac and now they sat, waiting for him to join them. They were underway, and James had recently returned to the cabin, having decided that they were not being followed (somewhat miraculously, given Isaac’s apparent flare for the dramatic and James’ insistence upon setting the prison on fire on their way out). 

“I don’t,” James answered, sprawling on the bed. He had taken off his Naval uniform and only agreed to keep it because, as Thomas reminded him, there was no point to be had in throwing away a perfectly good disguise that could be used another day. He now lay with his head in Thomas’ lap, wearing nothing more than a pair of breeches, and Thomas took a moment to appreciate the perfect symmetry of the moment. They had lain like this often when James had last looked this way, and now, here he found himself, once again with James’ head resting comfortably against his legs, his long hair unbound and Thomas’ fingers idly drawing patterns among the freckles on his shoulders. “That still bloody tickles,” he reminded, and Thomas grinned.

“So what was it that you said to Isaac? Gabh su -” He stopped, and James laughed.

“I told him to go fuck himself,” he answered. “I always spoke more Irish than Cornish.” 

Thomas gave him a surprised look, and James shrugged. 

“My grandfather,” he explained, and Thomas frowned.

“I thought you said he was Cornish?” 

“No. That was my grandmother. Where did you think the name McGraw came from?” 

“To be honest I heard the name and started searching the family tree to make certain we weren’t related,” Thomas answered. “We’re not, by the way, and thank God for that!” James laughed, and Thomas smiled fondly at him.

“What are you planning on doing with Isaac?” he asked, and James shrugged.

“That will be up to him,” he answered. “He has experience as a captain, though. If he’s still as good a tactician as I recall, he could step into the gap created by Vane’s death.”

Thomas gave a short hum of agreement, his hands moving to card through James’ hair. He looked up when the door to the cabin opened and John stepped through, his gaze landing on Thomas and James and looking them up and down.

“I think,” he said, “I recall saying something about not pissing off any nobles.” 

“We didn’t,” James pointed out. 

“He’s telling the truth,” Thomas agreed solemnly. “It wasn’t a noble. It was a Lieutenant Pickram.” 

John rolled his eyes.

“And the uniform?” he demanded. 

“Gone the way of the dodo bird,” James answered laconically. “Or at least the waistcoat did. The rest of it’s salvageable.” 

John came over and sat down next to James with a groan. 

“I’ve put your second stray blond in the first mate’s cabin,” he said. “I assumed you wouldn’t appreciate a future captain under your command bunking with -” He stopped, yelping as Thomas poked him in the ribs.

“I am _not_ a stray,” he said, and John grinned. 

“I was speaking of Ben Gunn, actually,” he said. “But since you’ve decided to claim the label -” He grinned wider, laughing as Thomas made a face.

“Did you know our James can speak Irish?” the taller man asked, and John turned, raising both eyebrows at James.

“Really?” he asked.

“Póg mo thóin,” James answered, and John grinned back at him.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he answered. James raised his head, startled, and John grinned wickedly at him. “Everyone’s heard that one,” he said. 

James grinned. 

“Is tú mo ghrá',” he said, and John frowned.

“What does that one mean?” 

“It means get down here, you idiots,” James answered, his voice rough. He pulled John closer, and Thomas grinned as he joined them.

“Ah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering, Isaac is a character of mine from another fic - They That Sow the Wind. He's appearing as a guest star in this one because I can and because occasionally he just shows up and I write him in where he says to. He's that kind of character. Also, the dodo became extinct in 1681, so James saying the uniform went the same way is not an anachronism. I look up the weirdest things, I really do.


End file.
